Page 30 of Let's Kiss and Tell
This isnotokay. I cannot be thinking of Lucy in the dark while I’m lying in bed.
She’s doing me a huge favor by helping me out for the wedding, and she sees me as someone she can trust when it comes to her career. What I’mnotgoing to do is start blurring the lines. No matter how attracted I am to her. I’m most definitely not going to be thinking about how her hair smells like strawberries and how every inch of her skin that’s not covered by clothing is somehow shimmery, or how she’s going to be spending the next five weeks pretending she’s my girlfriend.
I reach beneath the waistband of my boxers and then stop myself. “Fuck, Marsh, get it together,” I huff.
I turn over and force myself to sleep.
While LA rush hour is unbeatable,The Journal’s ninea.m.morning rush hour is a close second. I’m practically pinned to the back of the elevator as everyone makes their way inside, and Drew on world news squeezes next to me. We briefly used to work together atThe Timesso it’s nice seeing a familiar face.
“Hey, Marsh, how’s the first week?”
A few people get off on the third floor and more space lets up.
“I’m now understanding why Jay was here for so long,” I say.
Drew laughs. “He’s a lucky son of a bitch, though, isn’t he?”
“You mean you’d rather be doing nothing in Portugal than reporting on what’s going on overseas right now?”
The elevator doors open to the fourth floor, and we both take a step out and head down the hall.
“We can’t all be you, Marsh,” Drew says. “I personally would love a break but there’s so much bullshit happening right now.”
“Stay strong,” I call back as we head in opposite directions.
My main priority is the escort feature, but I still have a quota of three stories a day on top of that. On deck I have stories about the most recent LA fire, the California Coastal Commission, and a two-million-dollar sex abuse settlement. I go toThe Journal’s instant messaging app and the first thing I see is the nameLucy Reidwith a little green circle. She’s the last person I messaged so naturally it makes sense. Ignoring the unfamiliar urge to click her name, I open a new tab to dive into my first story.
My brain feels like it’s wired and my fingers try to keep up. In less than an hour, I get through story one. Forty-five minutes after that I’m almost done with story two. I decide to skip lunch, and before twop.m.I’ve finished all three bylines and have them sent over to our editor.
My cursor goes to my file namedOlson x Singh.Alf Olson is the sixty-two-year-old founder and former CEO of Tango, the multinational tech company that has a hand in e-commerce, digital software, automotive parts, and artificial intelligence. Aditi Singh is the forty-year-old environmental philanthropist who is filing for divorce after ten years. Aside from their age difference, their story isn’t anything that would make you bat an eye—they met at a charity dinner, got married a year later, and have been keeping to themselves ever since.
The Journalhas been reporting the latest developments on Olson’s infidelity. My story needs to be a bit more evergreen if it’s going to come out closer to the trial.
My fingers strum my keyboard, and then I get a text:
Lucy:
Hey!
Marsh:
Hey. How are you?
Lucy:
Oh, you know…deep in the world of throating
A puff of air shoots out my nostrils.
Lucy:
See what I did there?
Marsh:
Yes. Very funny.
Lucy:
